Before The Batman
by ira-gula-superbia
Summary: Bruce Wayne returns from over a half a decade of journey to Gotham City to dispute claims of his demise. However, he soon finds himself fighting the corruption that floods his home, poisoning the lives of all that it touches.
1. In the Beginning

**We own the rights to nothing.**

* * *

_It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wound remains. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens but it is never gone._

_-Rose Kennedy_

* * *

The sun doesn't shine in Gotham. That's what everybody said, tourists with a sense of wonderment tinged with disgust and residents with a resigned acceptance. When it wasn't dark clouds of an oncoming storm, one of the few cleanings of the refuse-ridden streets, it was the smog pumped into the sky by the factories. Spires of glass and steel scratched at the belly of the heavens, striving for a goal they did not have a hope of reaching. Their bases were caked in blood and grime, but the wealthy, the corpulent who could afford the aeries of the city, paid to avoid such reminders. Others reveled in the filth, encouraged it and flourished in the moral decay that plagued the realm. Stench was only marginally thicker than the traffic that clogged the streets, and no amount of money could mask the omnipresent odor. Trapped in the shadows of Gotham's towers, the inhabitants of the streets never received a chance to grow into something more, to reach beyond the squalor that they were nearly suffocating in. Still, it was home, a young Bruce Wayne reminded himself as he finished mooring the Singapore ship that he had managed to catch a ride with.

Shouting a farewell to the crewmates, he shouldered his duffel bag and headed inland, towards the dark towers and overflowing streets. Winding through the maze of warehouses and crates, he traversed through the waterfront district, heading for the howling highway interspersed with the bark of car horns. He winced at the roar of the engines, but he smiled at the sight of the long dark car parked on the side of the road, accompanied by a lean, dapper man with a thin, black moustache.

"Master Bruce," the smartly dressed man nodded in greeting, a definite contrast to the rough crew that patrolled the docks.

"Alfred," he gave a somber smile as he approached the elder man, clasping him in a quick, tight hug that pushed the air out of the butler. He pulled back and smiled at his caretaker, "It's good to see you."

"Master Bruce, they've spent the last two years of your sabbatical trying to convince me you were dead. 'Good' does not even begin to describe it," he answered wryly.

Bruce had the grace to look abashed as he shrugged, "Well, I'm not expecting to stay long. Just going to prove that I'm alive and then I'm back out in the world."

"Hmmm," mused Alfred, opening the backdoor of the car. Bruce tossed his duffelbag inside and followed after automatically before the elder man closed the door behind him and then entered the driver's seat. The engine growled to life, the sound smooth and easy, and it rolled confidently into the bustling traffic. Weaving through the congested roads, the dark car moved with sleek purpose towards the outskirts of the city where the buildings were not as thick. Dirt and trees replaced pavement and skyscrapers, and Bruce relaxed in the backseat as he admired the scenery.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, what is it you've been up to while on your journey around the world?" Alfred asked, looking up into the rearview mirror.

"Training," he answered simply, chin in hand.

"For what, sir?"

"Preparing for the future."

"And I presume this training was, in part, on how to be cryptic?"

He laughed, "Yeah, something like that."

"Joy."

"What about you, Alfred? How've you been doing?"

"Maintaining the lonely halls of Wayne Manor, sir. It'll do some good for it to have feet other than mine wandering it," he mused. "Even if only for a short while."

"I wish I could stay longer," Bruce murmured, his voice growing soft as the ancestral home suddenly filled his window's view. Designed back in 1795 by Nathan van Derm for Bruce's ancestor, Darius Wayne, the cathedral-like manor had survived for centuries as one of Gotham's finest architectural achievements. Its underground was infested with tunnels, the Catacombs, which had once served as a portion of the Underground Railroad and, in Bruce's youth, a place to explore and play in. The grounds remained immaculate, even in the years of his absence and the building dredged forth both a great sense of loss and joy, memories of racing through the spacious rooms and hallways, hiding from his father in a forever repeated game.

More memories drifted forth and bound him to his seat for an instant even as the car stopped and Alfred opened the door. He was torn from his reverie when the butler finally spoke, "Master Bruce, are you all right?"

He shook his head and emerged from the car with his duffelbag in tow. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

"I'll tend to your bag as you freshen up, Master Bruce. I don't want to think about what scent has latched onto you from that ship," Alfred suggested to the teenager. The boy shook his head and shouldered his large pack.

"It's cool. I'll take it up to the guest room myself."

"Guest room?" the consummate butler arched a brow. "I should think not, Master Bruce."

"I'm not going to be here that long."

"You are staying in your own room, Master Bruce. I just cleaned it today."

"Alfred -"

"I'm also afraid that the guest rooms are in terrible disarray. Truly horrendous."

Bruce narrowed his eyes as the dapper man opened the door and gave a light smile, "Really, Alfred? You expect me to believe that you'd let anything in your care fall into 'disarray?'"

"That's the story, Master Bruce, and I'm sticking to it."

A chuckle spilled from Bruce's lips as he stepped into the massive foyer and froze, suddenly awash with sights, sounds, and smells of old. His mother's voice summoning him to the table for a meal from the bottom of the stairs, the faint scent of smoke wafting from the nearby den, the bustle of servants as they prepared for another charity ball. Then just as suddenly as it washed over him, it was gone as Alfred laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Did you need a minute, Master Bruce?"

Giving a sigh that he didn't mean to be so shaky, the youth shook his head again, "No. I'm good. Just, uh . . . my room. It – it's to the left, right?"

"That is correct, Master Bruce. Do you require anything else?"

"Nope."

"Then I shall let you settle in while I prepare dinner. Anything in particular you'd like?"

"Heh," Bruce chuckled, "Something American. I've had everything but for the past few years."

"Something deep-fried, drowning in its own grease, and more likely to induce a heart attack than provide you with any nutritional value. A wise choice, Master Bruce," Alfred nodded before setting off towards the kitchen. Bruce gave another short laugh, lifted the duffelbag higher onto his shoulder, and proceeded up the stairs.

He wandered down the hall, regarded the portraits of his ancestors, all the way back to Anthony Wayne, a hero of the Revolutionary War, to Solomon Wayne, attired in his judge's robes and wig, to Bruce's own mother and father. He paused at their portrait, saw that even in the medium of paint their love for each other was obvious. His lids clenched shut as a woman screamed, her voice cut short by the flash of the muzzle as it spat out another bullet. Her body crumpling against the wet pavement of Park Row, joining her husband, reaching for him with her last action.

Before he could sink any further into the memory, Bruce shook his head and continued towards his old room. He opened the door and studied the solid grey walls that he had painted mere months before departing for his sojourn. Everything was much as he had left it, the machinations of Alfred no doubt even the toys and books of his childhood that perched upon the shelves. His gaze swung to the large bed with its fresh seats and he only gave enough time to kick off his shoots, toss his bag into the corner, and leap atop them before he let the best sleep he'd had in years claim him, even with all the ghosts that stalked the mansion's halls.

* * *

Dinner had been a short, but pleasant, affair in which Bruce had devoured more pizza, and quicker, than he probably should have before retiring for the evening. However, back in the room, he found sleep did not come as easily to him as it had that afternoon, and after nearly an hour of laying in his bed, he rose. Trading his sweatpants for dark cargo pants and slipping a hooded jacket over his grey muscle shirt, he searched his bag for a moment. He pulled out a pair of climber's gloves and climbing shoes, and quickly pulled them on before descending out the window, an action he had grown more accustomed to over the use of a door. Closing the window, he scaled the wall of the manor and dropped noiselessly to the ground before setting off on a brisk pace towards Gotham.

* * *

In the squad car, Detective Gordon wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of smoke and turned to the burly rookie at his side.

"I swear, Bullock, if you don't put that thing out, I'm going to make you eat it."

The lantern-jawed heavyset officer of the law, who seemed far too young to be smoking the fat cigar that jutted from his lips, grumbled, "Ah, come on, Gordy. Don't deny me my vices."

"By the looks of it, somebody has to. And if you ever call me 'Gordy' again, I'll drop you off at Crime Alley and make you walk back to the station," grumbled the senior member of the duo.

"Pfft," Harvey Bullock huffed, "I could handle it."

Despite the flippant attitude, the young cop rolled down his window and tossed his cigar into the alley's street before sighing and settling back into his seat. He was, blissfully as far as Gordon was concerned, silent for a moment, but the silence soon grew to be too much for him and he asked, "So why are we just sitting here? We waiting for something to go down?"

"You grow up in Gotham, Bullock?"

"Born and raised."

Gordon nodded, "Then I'm sure you've noticed that in this town, there's always something going down. Always. You try to trace down every little thing, you're just going to be running yourself into an early grave. So we're waiting for the most pertinent call of tonight."

"Huh," Bullock grunted as he looked forward again. Only two hours into their patrol and Gordon was beginning to regret accepting the task of looking after the rookie. He doubted that any favor would be worth what he was being put through and he removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, the younger man leaned forward and Gordon's eyes snapped open.

"Hey, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"There was, like, a guy or something. He just jumped between rooftops."

Gordon arched a brow as he regarded him, "Bullock, you haven't officially been a member of the GCPD longer than a week. It's way too early to start seeing things."

"I wasn't seeing things," he protested. "There was a guy -"

The radio squawked to life and Gordon leapt at the chance to answer it as the dispatcher announced, "Units, we have a 246 over on Khe Sanh and North High Street, please respond . . ."

"This is Gordon. We're two blocks away, en route," he reported before turning on the sirens and roaring out of the alley.

Racing across a rooftop, Bruce glanced towards the blaring squad car with its flashing lights that passed by on the street below before focusing on his path. He bounded off the radiator atop the roof, alighting upon the structure housing the stairwell from which he sprung across to the next roof, rolling across it to minimize the force. Smoothly ending up on his feet, he sprinted across the building and readied himself for the next leap. The buildings of Gotham City were clustered close together with barely enough room to breathe between them, making his free running experience far easier than it had been in the other locales where he had practiced it.

He raced across the buildings, breathing in Gotham again for the first time in years, the air searing his lungs. On the streets below, he glimpsed drug peddlers and prostitutes, calling out to entice passersby who pretended they weren't there or responded all too eagerly to their advances. There were thugs posturing on street corners, daring rivals to make a move on them. All of it had Bruce clenching his fists, blanching his knuckles beneath the gloves as he pushed his body harder, ran faster. Vaulting the gaps between the buildings, he let the rage at the filth boil over, permitted it to consume him for a second. Then the theater came into view.

It had been shut down in his absence, its lights dark and its windows boarded. He had no memory of choosing this path, but his subconscious had guided him to the once prosperous portion of Gotham City. To an alley drowning in its own filth where two of the most affluent and generous member of Gotham's elite had been gunned down for a necklace of pearls that they would have freely given. To where a child had lost not only his parents, but his innocence and much of his faith in humanity.

"Hey, what the Hell are you doing up here?"

Bruce turned at the feminine tone, rounding upon the curvaceous, mocha-skinned girl who studied him suspiciously with crystal blue eyes. A black jacket fitted snugly to her body, leaving a strip of smooth flesh between before the snug jeans encircling her broad hips. The fur-lined hood of the jacket was down, revealing short, jagged ebony hair that had a tomboyish cut to it. Hanging about her neck was a pair of amber goggles, and her hands were shoved into the pockets of her light jacket. Her attire was not designed for conservation of body heat, but it did portray her slender, toned body in a most distracting fashion, which forced her to repeat her question.

"Hey! I said what are you doing up here?"

"Nothing," he answered, turning back towards the alley.

His stern tone did not dissuade her though it did soften hers before her next question, "You new around here?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, I ain't ever seen your face before."

"'Aren't,'" he corrected automatically.

She scoffed, "Great, you're one of those, huh?"

He glanced back at her, "One of what?"

"Sticklers," she grumbled, "Always following rules, always making sure everything is prim and proper. The boring type."

"Boring," he repeated before laughing softly and shaking his head. "Yeah, don't I wish."

"Oh, so pretty boy's got a few secrets?" she purred, joining him on the ledge and angling herself to study his face.

"Exactly. Secrets. As in, the sort don't get shared," he nodded.

"Ooh. Cute boy, brooding mysteriously, and keeping secrets. Now you got my interest piqued."

"Careful," he cautioned, "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Well, it's a good thing she's got eight more."

The banter was interrupted by the door of the stairwell being slammed open by a younger girl, obviously Bruce's current conversationalist's relation, with long, shaggy hair. She bellowed, "Selina! Dinner's ready! Hurry up before Kyle eats it all!"

"Jeez, Mags, you trying to wake the whole neighborhood?" snapped the elder of the girls. "I'll be right down. And you tell Kyle that if he eats everything, I'll start adding ex-lax again!"

"All right," she called back as she pulled the door shut.

With a sigh, Selina stretched her lithe frame, pushing out her chest as she cracked her back, and Bruce tried, with admittedly minimal effort, to resist the urge to subtly fixate upon the voluptuous presentation. She relaxed and gave a slight chuckle as she turned, trailing her fingers across his shoulder, "See you 'round, handsome. Try not to mope around for too long. Doesn't do anybody no good."

"'Any.'"

"Whatever," she retorted before pulling the door shut behind her. Bruce couldn't help the chuckle and he shook his head before looking towards the street where an elderly woman struggled with her groceries and the steps to her apartment building. Suddenly, one of the street toughs broke away from his pack, racing over to hold her bags, permitting her to open the door. Amidst a shower of thanks, he followed her into the building, groceries in hand. The scene brought a small smile to Bruce's face and as he took off over the roofs once again, it wasn't rage that fueled him.

* * *

Bruce fought sleep as he sat at the long wooden table, flanked by Alfred and the lawyers naturally retained by the Wayne family. The room was stuffy as semantics were traded back and forth, legalities that seemed to suck away at his very life force.

"As you can all see, the young Wayne is alive and well. Now cease these preposterous claims to the fortune," demanded the white-haired man with a leathery face. The men and women across the table traded glances, most of them turning to the scarecrow-thin Mr. Shaw, a sharp-faced man with icy eyes. He squinted at the teenage boy across the table who yawned lethargically in response before sighing.

"We will need to authenticate the legitimacy of this claim. We shall be contacting you within the next two weeks to set up a meeting."

Seemingly as one, the company of lawyers rose from their seats and filed from the room. After the door had rattled shut behind them, the elder man reclined in his seat, removed his glasses, and wiped at them with a cloth. "All in all, I felt that went rather well."

Bruce leaned forward, cracking his neck as he regarded the lawyer and asked, "What did they mean about the stuff at the end?"

"Ah," he sighed, perching his spectacles back upon his nose. "Well, they're trying to drag things out, trying to work out a different strategy to use. So, they're stalling for time."

"Well, how long is that going to take?"

"They'll take those full two weeks. Then there's no telling how long they'll take to gather the proper individuals to do a DNA test, plus for however long it takes them to get back to us on that," the man explained as he stood and picked up his briefcase. He nodded to the youth and his caretaker, "Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth. I wish you both a good day, and I'll be sure to contact you soon."

As he left, Bruce let his head fall back against the seat as he groaned, "Well, that completely ruins the plan."

"Does staying longer than you intended really distress you that much, Master Bruce?" Alfred queried as he stood and looked down to regard his ward before the youth followed suit.

"I guess not," he grumbled as he trudged from the room, tailed closely by the dapper man. Bruce turned to his own musings, internalizing his grumbling as they entered the car and it rode smoothly through the streets of Gotham. The streets were less populated, largely devoid of the roaming droves of gang member and wannabes, but it wasn't as though the sun had suddenly illuminated the darkness that plagued the city. Alleys were clogged with refuse, human and more traditional garbage alike, and threatened to spill out onto the cracked and ever-deteriorating sidewalks. Wooden planks were just as common an occupant of windows as glass, and anything within arm's reach, and much beyond it as well, was covered with graffiti.

There was a gradual change in the environment as they drove. Stately houses replaced cramped apartment buildings and the streets were cleaned, freed from the stench that choked the slums and ghettos of the city. Occasionally, there was some profanity or sign sprayed upon the side of a building, but it was the more often the work of posh youth looking for some sort of thrill than a true gang member proclaiming his or her territory. When more country clubs, high-end hotels, and several mansions started filling his view, instead of thinning, Bruce realized that they weren't headed back to the mansion. His gaze snapped forward and he barked, "Hey! What's going on?"

"I figured, Master Bruce, since it seems as though you'll be sticking around for a while, we might as well get you involved with the world."

"I don't like the sound of that, Alfred."

"I didn't think you would, Master Bruce. Nevertheless, here's your backpack – and here we are," Alfred pulled in front of the tall, brick structure, a sprawling complex on immaculately kept grounds and populated by girls and boys in blue blazers and, respectively, skirts and slacks. A series of arches led to the doors of the building and set overhead of them were the words 'Gotham Academy.' Bruce groaned as Alfred continued, "Now I took the liberty of calling ahead – they were willing to overlook your lack of a uniform for today – and they are most anxious to accept you. You're here in time for lunch, and I have already set you up with an account."

"Alfred, you can't be serious," he growled.

"I'll be here to pick you up at the end of the day though do not be afraid to wander off with any friends you might make," he answered in return, having already exited and moved around to open the door for him. Reluctantly, Bruce emerged from the dark vehicle and glared at the elder man who seemed entirely impervious to the daggers shooting from his eyes. As Alfred unflinchingly weathered the ocular assault, Bruce huffed and turned his glare upon the building. A companionable hand patted his shoulder before Alfred headed around the car, opening the driver door and bidding farewell before he entered.

"Have a good day, Master Bruce. I'll be sure to prepare a feast for tonight."

"Yeah," he grumbled as he hiked the backpack higher onto his shoulder. He trudged towards the complex, mumbling under his breath, "And it had better be a good one after all this."

* * *

**Yeah, yeah, we're posting another story, over-stretching ourselves, trying to do too much. ****Well, screw you!**

**All right, we've got the keyboard back from Ira. So in case it wasn't obvious, this is a story of Bruce Wayne as a teenager, forced to return to Gotham City from his extensive training. That doesn't mean it's going to be about him just going to high school and stuff. Definitely not. We're going to be seeing a lot of familiar faces - and most of them aren't going to be friendly.**

**So, please review! Encourage us to keep this up.**


	2. Orientation

**We own the rights to nothing.**

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_A child educated only at school is an uneducated child._

_-George Santayana_

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Bruce did what he could to ignore the stares and whispers that abounded about his sudden appearance, pretended as though he didn't notice them. He sat in self-isolation at one of the round tables in the corner of the room, seemingly focused on his lunch, but more interested in scanning for exit and entry routes and other tactical positions. The task was abruptly interrupted by a portly youth with a pointed nose and slicked-back hair who darted towards the largely abandoned table Bruce had staked as his own. The boy paused, his tiny blue eyes darting from side to side before he mumbled, "You, uh, you're at my, ah, table."

"It seems like it's got enough room," Bruce said before downing a spoonful of pudding.

The boy squinted, "So what did you do? Whoopie cushions on the seat? Itching powder bomb under the table?"

"Excuse me?"

"Right. Yeah. Because you haven't put poor ol' Oswald through this enough times that he doesn't know what's going on. Please. You guys need to get some new material," he snorted derisively, his voice slowly growing firmer.

Bruce arched a brow, "All right. I haven't even gotten to classes yet, and I'm already lost."

He paused again, arching a brow, "Wait, what?"

Releasing a sigh through his nose, he licked his spoon and then extended a hand, "Bruce Wayne. I got here about, oh . . . twenty minutes ago."

"Wait, wait. Bruce Wayne. As in _the_ Bruce Wayne? Of the Wayne family?" he gaped.

"That sounds about right," he nodded and pressed his hand out further. "My arm's kind of getting tired."

"Oh, my bad! Please, forgive me."

The boy eagerly grasped his hand, shaking it vigorously and nearly losing his tray as he introduced himself, "Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, at your service. I have to say, it's a real pleasure to meet you. A real pleasure."

"Thanks. Nice to meet you too," Bruce smiled as the short teenager finally settled into the seat though he soon grimaced.

"I should probably warn you, I don't think being Bruce Wayne is going to save you from the social suicide you're performing by sitting with me," he cautioned.

"What do you mean?" he asked, scooping one of his fries through his ketchup.

Oswald lifted the tuna salad sandwich from his tray and waved it in the air as he explained, "See, I'm kind of the oddball around here. My family's got money, loads of it, but I don't got the looks, charisma, or sheer dumb strength to really fit in. So I'm kind of the local pariah. You get seen hanging with me, any cool points you might have are going to tank."

"They're welcome to. I'm not going to be around long enough for anything like that to matter."

"Makes sense. After what happened to your parents, I wouldn't want to stick around either," Oswald nodded before wincing. "Oh geez. Oh man. Dude, I didn't mean that. Well, I mean, I _did_, just not – I, you know. I -"

"Oswald," he interjected. "Relax. Breathe."

Following the firm direction, he drew in a deep breath and released it before giving a weak chuckle, stubby fingers scratching at the back of his head, "Eheh. Right. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not planning on making a big deal of anything," he admitted between swigs from the milk carton. "I'm flying as far under the radar as I possibly can."

"Bruce? Bruce, is that really you?"

The voice rang out across the cafeteria, rising above the clamor that had possessed it, and it made Bruce flinch, giving a grunt in annoyance. Oswald couldn't help the short chuckle as he pointed out, "You're doing a smashing job."

"Gee, thanks," he muttered as he glanced towards the quickly approaching figure. Tray in hand, the teenaged boy approaching them drew numerous stares, largely due to his sudden outburst, but the female population took a particular interest in his passage. He wore an easy smile that reached into his sky blue eyes. Brown hair reached to his shoulders and framed his handsome face. The suit jacket fitted his athletic frame snugly but he moved with an easy assurance in his gait, a natural air of confidence that marked an extrovert.

"Bruce Wayne," he grinned as he set his tray down at the table. "Just what have you been up to that takes you out of our unfair city for so long?"

"Sorry, I don't believe we've met," Bruce frowned.

"You're kidding me," he scoffed, leaning over the table. He tapped Oswald on the shoulder and demanded, "Can you believe this guy, Ozzie? He doesn't think we've met."

Oswald tried to mumble a response around the tuna fish sandwich in his mouth, and nearly choked on it for his effort. The newcomer to the table clapped a hand on the portly teen's back, sending the food back up his throat and back onto his plate as he tried to regain his breath. Seemingly oblivious to the other boy's plight, the brown-haired figure focused on Bruce.

"Do you seriously not recognize me?"

"I've been out of Gotham for over half of a decade. I may have forgotten a few faces," he admitted.

"Not these ones, I hope."

Bruce's grip tightened about his fork as the youth across from him reached into the breast of his jacket, but relaxed when he only produced a silvery coin that he sent flipping towards him. He caught it midair and frowned at the Peace dollar, rolling it between his fingers to glimpse another face side.

"You lost your Grey Ghost collector's edition figure to me thanks to that coin. Course, once you found out, you tried to beat the snot out of me, and our moms separated us," the brown-haired teen smiled fondly at the memory.

"Harvey? Harvey Dent?"

"There you go! How is it that you could ever forget a mug this handsome?"

"Probably trauma repression," Oswald muttered between noisy bites, and Bruce chuckled as he stood, clasping forearms with his old friend before returning the silver dollar. Harvey either didn't notice the comment or pretended not to as he joined them at the table.

"So what are you finally doing back in Gotham? Thought you were off globetrotting or something," he asked as he began to eat his pizza.

"I had to come back and prove that the rumors of my demise were greatly exaggerated," he answered evenly.

"So then what've you been up to? You've got to have some good stories."

His mind shifted to autopilot as he regaled them with the tales he had prepared in the case of such situations. Most of them were even largely true aside from a few small discrepancies, and he was fortunate enough that they believed the stories. Harvey tossed in about jokes per anecdote and Oswald questioned about the native birds of every country that he had visited. With the last ten minutes of lunch, he sought their help in deciphering the crude map of the grounds, trying to figure out the path to his next class. They offered what assistance they could, but by the end of their mixed explanations, Bruce figured he would have been better off on his own.

After bidding farewell to the pair of them, Bruce had a second after the bell rang before he was swept up in the flood of students, pouring from classes and out of the lunch room. They paused in clumps, like rocks in a stream, to collect necessary materials from their lockers or merely to converse in the scant few minutes before the next period. Bruce heard more inane conversations in three minutes than he had in the last three years, and already most of it was about 'the new kid out of uniform.' He tried to take less dense estuaries, but his effort only resulted in him completely losing his bearings. Even as the herds clogging the halls began to thin, he was left wandering, trying to make sense of the convoluted mess that was supposed to represent halls and rooms. His study was interrupted by a loud smack followed by a light groan, and his head snapped towards a girl about his own age.

Vibrant crimson tresses flowed past her shoulders, contrasting against her freckled, alabaster skin. The uniform looked too big for her petite figure and the books that had spilled around her seemed to carry more mass than she did. Rimmed spectacles that matched the flaming hue of her locks were perched on her small nose, and she fixed them anxiously as she kneeled down to collect the scattered papers and textbooks. She bit at her full, luscious lips as muttered to herself, and her leaf green eyes flickered over the mess about her. When a rough hand suddenly invaded her view, she recoiled before staring up into kind blue eyes as Bruce offered her one of her notebooks.

"You all right?"

She blinked in shock before cautiously accepting the proffered book and giving a jerky nod as she looked at the floor, "Th-thanks."

"Not a problem. It's not like I was going anywhere fast," he answered with a slight grin.

"You're the new guy, right?"

Her voice was soft and lilting but she continued to refuse to make eye contact as they collected her materials. Bruce nodded as he took half of the books for her, "Seems like it. I'm Bruce -"

"Wayne. Yeah, the grapevine's real quick around here," she interrupted as she stood, ducking her head forward, her hair curtaining off most of her face. "I can take those."

"It looks like you've got more than enough. How about we make a deal?" he offered. "I'll help you carry these if you can help me get to my next class."

"Oh, sure," she nodded enthusiastically. "Where are you headed?"

"Biology," he recalled.

"Then you, Mr. Wayne, are in luck. That's my next class as well."

"Awesome. By the way, what was your name?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. I, uh, I'm Pamela Isley. It's nice to meet you," she gave another faltering grin in greeting.

"And it's both an honor and a pleasure to meet you. So, please, lead on, Miss Isley," he requested and she gave a short nod before doing so. The halls had emptied and each step she took resounded with echoing clarity in the resultant silence. Murmurs leaked from the classrooms as teachers fought for the first few minutes for control of the chaos brought on by the bell. Pamela fidgeted as they walked and Bruce realized, probably before she did, that she was going to try to fill the silence with attempts at a conversation.

"So, uh, you know, you-you're lucky to be coming in now. We've started in on plants. You should see the greenhouse they have on campus. Almost makes it all worth it."

"You're a plant person?"

"I-I guess you could say that," she nodded meekly. "Back in Seattle, we had a big greenhouse. Mom wasn't too good with it, but I've always had a bit of a green thumb, so I ended up taking care of it more than anyone else."

"You're from Seattle?"

"O-originally. We moved out here a few years back. But plants, th-they just don't grow the same out here. I don't think they get enough sun."

"Sometimes it seems like nothing around here does."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he shook his head, trying to clear the gloom as Pamela stopped at a door, pausing for a second before pushing it open and ducking inside. Bruce followed after her, and immediately felt all the eyes of the class fix upon them, rewarding the pair with their undivided attention. Pamela froze, completely playing the part of the proverbial deer in the headlights, until the teacher barked at them.

"Miss Isley! You care to explain why you're so late?"

"I, uh, yessir. It's – I – You see -"

"My fault," Bruce volunteered.

The heavyset man squinted at him from thick bifocals before blinking in surprise and exclaiming, "Mr. Wayne. I didn't see you there. Please, please, come in. I know that there aren't many left, but, please, take whatever seat you'd like."

He nodded, "Thank you, sir."

After returning Pamela's books, to which she gave a grateful nod, he found a place in the largely empty back row. He pulled out a notebook and clicked the mechanical pencil, extending the lead, before settling back for the lesson. In front of the class, he glimpsed Pamela arranging her array of learning materials before opening a large notebook and peering forward with obvious anticipation. Her interest in the subject was genuine and within the first five minutes of review, Bruce was fairly certain that she could teach the class better than the instructor. At least, if she wasn't under constant bombardment by crumpled pieces of paper, rubber bands, and seemingly whatever else came to hand. Taunting snickers ranged about the classroom at the antics, soft chattering that the instructor ignored with practiced ease.

When the teasing showed no signs of letting up, even as the hand that Pamela gripped her pencil with began to tremble, Bruce set to work on his own arsenal. Within a few minutes, he was prepared to mount a defense for the girl. As another paper ball was readied, he launched a shard of wire, a piece broken from the spine of his spiral notebook, at the offender's hand. The tiny fragment was true to aim and the boy gave a short yelp, dropping the paper and incurring the teacher's bushy-browed glare. After several more similar incidents, Pamela began to relax and the rest of the class caught on. Instead they turned to glancing back at him, trading whispers and exotic theories, some of which weren't as far off as they probably should have been. Unfortunately, for every harmless peek backwards, there was another filled with unrestrained malice, a palpable glare that was easily pinpointed.

Most of the sources were common alpha males attempting to establish their place in the pecking order, but it seemed to be something more for one of the students. Sharp-faced with a prominent scowl, the strange boy's sandy hair was shaved close to his head and he regarded Bruce with open contempt. His brown pupils were small, leaving a large portion of his sclera visible under his jagged brow, and they narrowed as they made eye contact. The cruel-faced boy gave a slight scoff and turned his gaze forward, leaning back to drape an arm over the back of his chair. Bruce watched the hostile character for a moment longer before relaxing, at least as much as he could.

The class passed quickly enough with all further incident avoided, and Bruce bid farewell to Pamela after getting directions and making a rebuffed offer to carry her books again. His classes went by swiftly enough and he was briefly reunited with Oswald in Physics and then Harvey in Pre-Calc and World and American History and Geography. Finally, he found himself in study hall, a period that didn't seem to earn the name. The teacher exerted not an inkling of authority over them, intent upon a thick and dog-eared novel that he refused to look up from. Clamor filled the room as students discussed whose parents would be gone for the upcoming weekend, who had managed to get their hands on alcohol or other more illicit goods, and whatever rumor happened to be floating around. Bruce spent the time organizing the few notes he had gathered and then turned to correcting the mess of a map that he had been given.

A presence suddenly invaded his proximity and his eyes snapped to a beautifully budding girl with silvery hair descending past her shoulders. Her crystal blue eyes widened slightly as they made contact with his and she offered a small wave and short smile. She was small, not as petite as Pamela, but her legs were shapely, hinting at some sort of sport or physical exertion. Although young, she was already developing into a woman who would shame Helen of Troy and give Aphrodite a run for her money. She greeted him enthusiastically, offering a slender hand, "Hey there. You're Bruce, right? Bruce Wayne?"

"Last time I checked," he smirked, accepting the soft, pale extremity in his own calloused palm and giving it a gentle shake.

"Harvey told me about you. I'm Silver St. Cloud. Welcome to Gotham Academy," she beamed.

He returned the smile, knowing her radiance far outshone him, as he released her hand. "You're the first person to actually say that to me. Everybody else acts like I'm made of fine China or is more interested in talking about me than they are talking _to_ me."

She nodded her head glumly as she took a vacant seat next to him with a sigh, "Yep. No rumor mill quite like Gotham Academy. At least, I hope not."

"That bad?" he chuckled.

"Eh, probably worse," she shrugged, waving a hand through the air. "But I'm a glass-half-full kind of girl, so . . . eh. But still, I have to ask . . . did you really hunt tigers in India with a bow and arrow and make out with a princess or something?"

He quirked an eyebrow and leaned in, signaling for her to do likewise before revealing, "Actually, I didn't need the bow or the arrows."

Silver blinked and then threw back her head to let out a raucous laugh, drawing the attention of several students and the teacher, whose gaze flickered up lazily from his book, ascertained that nobody was injured, and the focused back on his novel. Several pockets of girls glowered at Silver and then turned to each other, exchanging fervent whispers. Bruce jerked his chin to one of them and noted, "Don't look now, but I think we just started another rumor."

Despite his warning, she turned to see her murmuring peers who quieted under her stare. As soon as she turned back to Bruce, the story of the newly discovered scandalous affair started right back up, prompting the silver haired girl to roll her eyes again, "Awesome. Now there's going to be a story that I'm two-timing Harv."

"Harvey? Really? How'd he manage to get a stunner such as yourself?"

"He didn't. But, oh, how he wishes," she snorted, "Good luck convincing anybody else of that though. They're all convinced that if a dude and a chick spend more than ten minutes together, they have to be getting it on."

"Wait, so that doesn't mean we're about to go to the janitor's closet and start making out?" he grinned.

"Keep up the charm, handsome, and we might give the little birdies something to really talk about," she quipped back. Before he could continue their game, she leaned back and laughed again, "You're all right, Bruce. I know the Wayne's have always been upstanding folk, but I had to see it for myself. Most of the kids here are brats or thugs."

"Thugs?"

She pointed to the back of the classroom and said, "Prime example: Roman Sionis and his cronies. His parents run Janus Cosmetics, but he's worse than most of the actual mobsters here."

Her finger jabbed at the direction of the sharp-faced boy from Bruce's Biology class. Languishing amongst a number of desks that he had arranged to suit his needs, his feet were propped up in front of him and his arm was wrapped about the broad hips of the girl who sat on the desk's armrest. The uniform fitted closely to her voluptuous frame, but her dark, slender eyes were lacking any salacious intent. Long ebony hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached well past her shoulders. A necklace like golden spider silk hung around her lean neck, and ended in a small pendant in which a ruby was set in.

In one of the adjacent desks was a powerfully built, broad-shouldered bruiser of a specimen with icy blue eyes and teeth bared in a snarl. Blonde hair was slicked into a slight point atop his head, almost resembling a mohawk. Thick fingers repeatedly uncurled and clenched again as though seeking for something to grasp and break. Near him, perched in yet another desk, was a thin, raggedy figure with stick-like arms draped over equally thin legs. His pale, sour face was framed by stringy, ebony hair that hung limply to his shoulders, forcing him to peer through twisted strands from yellow eyes.

"The chick is Kelly Li. Big, dumb, and ugly is Gunther Hardwicke while stick figure there is Armand Lydecker. Course, they all use these really stupid names. It's like Fisk, Shackley, and Volper, or something like that," Silver explained, dismissing the matter with a wave of her hand.

He continued a subversive examination of the quartet, avoiding their attention. As he watched, he noticed the callous and Guther's hands, the way his pointer fingers closed a little bit faster than his other digits as though he were pulling the trigger of a gun. The manner in which Armand scanned his classmates, sizing them up as though they were little more than a meal. Kelly's eyes were strangely dispassionate, and Bruce suspected that they wouldn't deviate even from the ugliest of scenes. Filing away the information for later, he turned his gaze back towards Silver who arched her brow.

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Just got a few thoughts rattling around that I need to sort out."

Their conversation was interrupted by the clamor of the bell, signaling an end to the day and opening the floodgates of the classrooms. Students rushed, eager to abandon the school though Bruce rose with his typical calm, which was mirrored by Silver. She smiled at him, "Have a good night, Bruce. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You too, Silver," he responded as they headed into the hall where they quickly lost track of each other amongst the stampede. Bruce waded through the fierce currents, catching a glimpse of Pamela in deep discussion with an exuberant blonde, her hair done in pigtails. He offered a small smile and a wave, which she shyly returned, incurring the sudden and enthusiastic interest of her friend who said something that turned the small girl's cheeks as red as her hair. Finally spilling out into the open air, Bruce took in deep breaths through his nose, relaxing for a moment before a familiar voice reached his ears.

"Hey, put it down! Stop that, you mental midgets!"

"Why don't you flap those stubby little wings of yours, birdbrain? Only way you're catching one of my passes is if you take flight."

"Or you're as awesome as the one, the only, the Stallion! Yeah, yeah! Come on, give it up!"

Giving a soft sigh, Bruce swung his gaze towards a power of heavily built figures who tossed a thin, black object between them. Racing from one to the other in an attempt to capture the projectile was one very flustered Oswald Cobblepot, already sweating excessively from the physical exertion. The brawny blonde member of the pair caught hold of the thin prize and hollered, "Yo, Crock, go long!"

Needing no further suggestion, the leaner brown-haired partner raced away from Oswald who waddled furiously after him, pumping his squat legs with minimal success. The blonde launched the item like a football, sending it spiraling through the air and right into the waiting Crock's arms. Stallion's arms shot up, signifying his victory as he demanded more praise from the audience that had gathered. Just as Oswald caught up to his tormentor, the youth launched the captive possession. However, the game was brought to an abrupt halt as Bruce interceded. His fingers caught the tip of the dark umbrella and he redirected it, sending it spinning to hook Crock's ankle and abruptly rob him of his footing. The athlete landed on the ground with a grunt expelling the air from his lungs and dazing him for an instant.

The small crowd that had gathered suddenly stopped laughing though the filming continued unrepentantly. Oswald gaped at the dark-haired teenager who returned his umbrella just as Stallion, veins bulging in his thick neck, stormed forward.

"Yo! Just what do you think you're doing?"

He stopped several feet away as Bruce's cold stare pinned him to the ground, replacing his rage with a healthy dosage of caution. The backpack that had been slung over the new student's shoulder slid down his arm before he dropped it on the ground. His knuckles popped as his fingers curled into fists and Stallion mimicked the process though his confidence had abandoned him now. Bruce watched him intensely, studying every movement. His footing was clumsy, too close together to provide any proper support for an offense or a defense, his body was rigid and unbending, limiting his already laughable movement, and he tucked his thumbs inside his fists. An urge to laugh seized Bruce for a moment, but he pushed it down even as he registered the teenager he had knocked down rising again. For a moment, the two squared off, a hush settling over the observers before a voice pierced the silence.

"Master Bruce, there is a business matter you must attend to."

Relief seemed to wash over Stallion and Bruce glanced towards the ever-calm and stoic butler who regarded him from beside the car. Swooping down, he picked up his backpack and tossed it over his shoulder again. He tapped the still awestruck Oswald on the back and jutted his chin towards the vehicle as the stout boy shook himself from his reverie.

"C'mon. We'll give you a ride."

Nodding eagerly at the offer, the victimized boy hurriedly followed Bruce to the car, pausing an instant before entering to stick his thin tongue out at the bullies.

* * *

**We updated this chapter, and decided to replace the original 'Fisk' with a character plucked from the movie of 'Under the Red Hood.' We used Ms. Li's voice actor's first name. Figured this would fit better than a largely original character wearing the mask of an old one.**

**Hope you enjoy the change. Also, for those who didn't get it, Lawrence Crock is 'Sportsmaster.'**


	3. Into the Night

**We own the rights to nothing.**

* * *

_Unfortunately, a super abundance of dreams is paid for by a growing potential for nightmares._

_-Sir Peter Ustinov_

* * *

Sleep didn't come easily to Bruce anymore. It was no longer enough for the sun to sink below the horizon, and multitude of stars to dazzle the inky sky. There was no easily identifiable point as to when the trouble began, only that it had been a slow downward spiral since the death of his parents. With sleep came nightmares, the endless repetition of their murder, played again and again by his subconscious as though it took some sort of delight in torturing him. Wakefulness allowed him to pantomime peace and maintain the illusion of an untroubled soul, but there was no chance of that in slumber. It took the total physical exhaustion, a weariness that went to the very bone, for him to achieve any sort of solace in the nocturnal hours, and the pursuit of it led him in a chase over the rooftops of Gotham City once again.

The cold of the night drove him to don a dark hoodie and a wool knit cap that he yanked over his ears. Air chilled his cheeks and his nose as he raced over Gotham, but the frigid bite was a minor hindrance at best. It served to remind him of the months he'd spent in the Himalayas, trekking through waist-deep snow in search of the reclusive monasteries and esoteric monks who inhabited them. When they had finally found him, teeth chattering and on the verge of frostbite, they had taken him in and assisted in his recovery. Afterwards they had tried to instruct him in a wide range of their practices, all intended to promote harmony of the mind, body, and spirit. He had struggled with the concept, still too consumed by the anger and raw, plagued by the emotions following his parents' deaths. Ultimately, his impatience had driven him to leave, but he still recalled his times with the monks with a certain fondness.

He melded with the shadows as he darted along the roofs, more at home in the darkness he crossed into than in the daylight. Each footstep made only the softest of sounds, leaving him free to listen to the cacophony that infested the streets. The crackling of the fires in garbage cans that the destitute gathered about, trading whatever talk they could to stave off the utter desolation. Cats and different creatures stalked the night, loudly declaring themselves masters of their specific domains, and responding fiercely to any who dared to challenge their dominion. Halting on a ledge once again, Bruce waited and dwelled in the shroud of midnight and its various noises.

Somewhere in the distance, the all too frequent call of sirens shrieked through the air. A woman sobbed in the apartment below him while he could see a couple screaming at each other across the street, their voices just barely carrying though the open window. Cars plowed through the darkened streets, horns blaring at each other with the occasional accompaniment of shouted obscenities and similar displays of road rage. He frowned at the sounds of despair and anger before clearing the gap between roofs and continuing on his still undefined path. The sounds did not grow reassuring as he progressed through the night, finding only more signs of misery and hopelessness.

He stopped again, perching atop a grotesque across an alley from one of Gotham's banks where a dark van had parked in the street. His eyes narrowed as he watched a group of men armed with duffel bags, some empty, head into the bank as though they belonged there. Their movements hinted at the firearms they sought to conceal underneath their bulky jackets, and Bruce's eyes narrowed. Reaching for his cellphone, he held back a grunt of frustration upon realizing that he had left it in his room. Below, most of the men filed into the bank, but one remained outside, loitering in the shadows of an alley to keep an eye out for approaching authorities. A flame flickered to life as he lit his cigarette, too focused on the task to notice the dark figure that leapt between roofs, caught the bank's edge, and quickly scrambled up over it.

Bruce took a moment to catch his breath, permitting his heart rate to return to normal before he snuck towards the trapdoor imbedded in the roof. He studied the lock before reaching to his boot and pulling out the thin picks he kept stowed there, inserting them into the keyhole and manipulating the tumblers. A thought that it was strange, and somewhere in the realm of sad and depressing, that he carried such equipment as lockpicking tools yet forgot his own cellphone crossed through his mind just before the lock clicked and came undone. Sliding it off, he eased the door open, cautious of the hinges, and entered the dark eaves of the bank.

Within the structure, the team of thieves impatiently waited for the man working on the safe. Most of them could not sit still, pacing with their hands never far away from their firearms as they eyed the door, paranoia being the byword of the business. One of their number flitted between desks, pilfering whatever he could jam into his pockets, even tearing off the pens that were chained down. The final member was a large man with a protruding belly who reclined in a high-back chair, his feet propped up on a desk. He held a cigar between his fingers, his expression smug as though the deed were already done and their escape ensured.

"Relax, boys. Mr. Falcone's paid in full. Cop's aren't going to be bothering us tonight," he assured them confidently.

"Only reason you're out here, Stryker," muttered a long-haired fellow.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, boss. I was just saying that this doesn't sit well with me. We did things different back in Detroit," the man complained, clear enough to hear this time.

The large man snorted, "Gotham's a whole different animal. So quit your bellyaching and settle. The acid'll work quick and we'll be in soon."

"Good timing, Mr. Stryker," the safecracker called from his position just before there was a loud _clunk_ and the bolts retracted. Grunting with exertion, he struggled to pull the door open before one of the other members joined in his attempt. Slipping the cigar back into his pocket, Stryker grunted as he pushed himself out of his chair, and waddled to the vault containing the bills stacked neatly upon the table and the walls lined with safety deposit boxes. A massive grin spread across his face as his men charged into the normally secure room, their duffle bags in hand.

"Strip it bare, boys," he instructed as he retrieved his cigar, pulling out a golden lighter along with it. He clicked it a few times before the flame emerged and he lit his favorite vice, puffing on it contentedly as the men searched through the stacks, ensuring that the bills they selected were devoid of dye packs. Others used crowbars or drills to gain access to the deposit boxes, taking anything of value in them and then discarding the emptied boxes. The clamor disguised the soft footsteps behind them, but the voice that intruded upon their work was loud enough to catch their attention, making them turn suddenly.

"Put down the money, walk away, and we won't have any trouble."

Stryker turned slowly, studying the lean figure cloaked in shadows, and chuckled, "Buddy, let me give you some advice. If you're going to be threatening somebody, try not to be outnumbered. Not to mention outgunned."

The large man paused to take a puff on his cigar before suggesting, "Now while I'm feeling generous, why don't you go ahead and scram, yeah?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed as he judged the miscreants who watched him warily even if their boss had already written him off. Their hands were already drifting towards their guns and before any of them had the initiative to actually draw them, he surged forward, catching Stryker with a thunderous hook that sent the cigar spiraling from his mouth. Following the momentum, Bruce spun to deliver a powerful kick to the gut of the closest hoodlum while striking the cigar to send it tumbling through the air. Its lit end caught one of the men in the eye and as his bellow bounced off the walls, the melee truly began.

The men rushed him, but he felt as though they were moving in slow motion as he twisted out of the way of a crowbar before driving an elbow into the side of the man's neck. As the man lurched forward, Bruce dropped to sweep his feet out from under him and then snapped back up to deliver an axe kick to the man as he tried to stand. His heel hooked the dropped crowbar and sent it flying into the face of another would-be-thief who hand had made it inside his jacket, grabbing for his firearm. Another man rushed him with a drill, the rotating spire stabbing through his shirt and glancing off his side. Bruce grunted and responded by hammering the offender's wrist between his knee and elbow, knocking the makeshift weapon out of his hands. He followed up with an open palm strike that smashed the man's head back, struck at the exposed throat, and then launched a fierce kick that slammed the man into the wall before he slumped to the floor.

Stryker, wincing as he rubbed his jaw, growled and lunged at the meddler only for Bruce to catch his arm and, with considerable exertion, fling him towards an oncoming pair, bowling all of them over. The man who had caught the ashes in his eyes continued to rub at them with his sleeve while the final standing member of the criminals drew a pistol and pointed it at Bruce who froze. Their eyes connected, neither of them daring to move as the crook struggled to keep his aim steady. Suddenly, Bruce ducked beneath the table piled with bills while the man fired at him, missing by several inches before the bullets tore through the money and table.

When the dark-garbed youth didn't emerge back out from under the table, the man faltered and then kneeled down to search for his target. He paused when he found the floor absent of any dark figures, and glanced about frantically until a droplet of blood suddenly splattered upon the tiles. The gunman looked up to the boy who had managed to suspend himself directly under the tabletop, pushing against the legs to maintain his position.

"Boo," Bruce greeted the man, delivering a swift kick to the man's face. He quickly slid out from under the table, wincing at the gash in his side, but worked through the pain to kick away the gun. The man dove for it anyway, but Bruce dropped his knee onto the man's spine, pinning him before delivering a blow to his head that ushered him into unconsciousness. Rising from the downed man, Bruce turned to the man he had blinded in his initial strike, seized his skull, and smashed the unfortunate robber's face into his knees, feeling his nose break with a wet crunch. Dropping the now unconscious body, he strode towards the men who struggled to move the bulk of Stryker off of them. They looked up at the shrouded figure above them, offering attempts at repentant grins before he delivered them into the darkness as well.

The thug stationed outside the bank flicked away the end of his cigar just before the door burst open. He glanced over to find a gloved fist hurtling towards him just before his world went black and he crumpled to the sidewalk as though his bones abruptly lost all their structural integrity. Bruce kneeled down and searched through the man's pockets, digging out a cellphone before he quickly dialed the police. As soon as the line picked up, he gave a harsh whisper, "Swineford Bank on Timm Street. There was an attempted robbery."

"Wha – hey, who is -"

He clicked the phone shut and placed it atop the unconscious man before jogging down the street, a new set of sirens screaming into the sky before he had even gone a block.

* * *

Bruce Wayne stumbled through his window, clutching at his side where his wound had soaked through the fabrics of his shirt and hoodie. Pulling off his hat and unzipping the sweatshirt, he slowly removed it, trying not to agitate his abdomen. He held up the garment, frowning at the hole that was large enough for his hand to fit through before dropping his arms with a sigh and wincing as his elbow brushed the injury. Raising his arms again, he dragged the undershirt from his body to reveal the lean, muscled frame marred by the crimson split along his rib and the multitude of faded scars. Tenderly touching the opening from which the flow of blood had slowed, he hissed and headed from his room, leaving his shirt on the floor alongside his sweatshirt.

The halls were dark, but Bruce's managed to make it to the bathroom without any hindrances. Flicking the light on as he entered the ornate bathroom, he opened the mirror cabinet and rifled through the contents before his hand landed on the antibacterial spray. He clenched his teeth together as the chemical spray reacted with the open wound. Returning the canister to the cabinet, he sidled over to the large closet and selected a soft washcloth before going back to the porcelain sink. Running the water until it warmed, he soaked the cloth and then mopped at the blood that had dried along his side. There was a footfall outside the room and Bruce glanced up as Alfred stepped into the doorway.

"Dear Lord," he gasped. "Master Bruce, what in the world happened?"

For a second, he considered concocting a story, but then remembered that it was Alfred and continued washing away the blood as he answered, "It's no big. I had to deal with a few thugs. One of them managed to get a lucky shot."

"We need to get you to the hospital."

Bruce shook his head, "I'm fine. It's only a flesh wound."

"Hardly, sir. That requires immediate medical attention," Alfred noted.

"Just a few stitches. I've had far worse. You still sew, don't you? I bet you can handle this," Bruce tried to give a reassuring smile that only encouraged Alfred's severe frown.

"The time is hardly appropriate for humor, Master Bruce. I will go get the car started."

"Alfred, this is Gotham City. The hospitals and just about anywhere else offering medical services has more than enough to care of. Look, I'm not going to a hospital. We're going have to take care of this in-house."

Alfred met the unwavering gaze of the young Wayne, holding it for a minute before sighing and dropping his head. He headed down the hall, "Permit me a moment to fetch the thread and needle, Master Bruce."

Ten minutes later found Bruce sitting in the spacious dining room, his face even as the sterilized needle dipped in and out of his flesh, drawing the wound closer together. Despite age and gloves, Alfred knotted the sutures with impressive professionalism, his gaze intent upon his work. He had originally menaced his youthful employer with the pink string before settling upon the black, stifling a laugh at the sudden blanching of the youth's face. His focus upon the business at hand did not mean that the state of Bruce's physique escaped his notice and as he finished up, he queried, "Master Bruce . . . exactly what did that 'training' you took up entail?"

"Preparation."

"For what?"

There was a stretch of silence in which Bruce's face hardened, turning stony and appearing far too old for his years. Alfred was prepared to rescind his inquiry when the youth declared, with astounding conviction, "I'm not going to let my parents' deaths be in vain. I'm going to do what I can to ensure that nobody else faces the same sort of tragedy that I did."

"Do you mind me asking 'how?'"

"At first, I was just trying to gain control of who I was. Of what had happened to me. Maybe find some sense in what happened. But there wasn't any. So I just kept going. Now though, I think there might be something that I can do."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"The police force . . . I'm not saying that they're all corrupt, but there's not enough who aren't to make an effective group. All the people of this city, all they know anymore is violence, suffering, and crime. Somebody needs to show them that there is something else to live for."

Falling silent, Alfred studied the determined teenager, a strange fire coming to his usually flat eyes. Heaving another sigh, he packed away the materials that he had utilized and then stood up to deliver his instructions, "Very well then, Master Bruce. Now, do not overwork yourself. If you pull the stitches out, you're going to the hospital."

"Got it," he nodded as he rose from the chair.

"And now get to bed. You're going to school for a full day tomorrow. And if I hear you sneaking out through the windows to do battle with hoodlums and ruffians once more, Master Bruce, I'll nail the blasted things shut," the butler cautioned.

Bruce chuckled as he dragged himself up the stairs, "Then next time, I'll just make sure you don't hear a thing, Alfred."

* * *

Alfred Stryker tugged at his tight collar and tried to appear unworried as he was led down the hall by the dark-haired surly faced man. His eyes drifted over the exquisite vases, expensive pieces of art that were centuries old, and other obvious displays of wealth as he was marched through the mansion by the ape-like man. An image of a condemned man being led to the gallows flashed through his mind, and he violently shook his head in an attempt to clear it of such thoughts. The ogre of a specimen looked back at him with a furrowed brow, and Stryker offered a weak chuckle and shrug, shrinking under the glare until his guide turned forward again. They came to a stop before a pair of massive oak doors and Stryker's personal Charon rapped his knuckles against the portal twice and then stepped back. In the interim before the summons, Stryker ran clammy fingers over his bald scalp and set about attempting to adjust the suit that felt as though it was trying to constrict him.

Finally, after what had felt like something nearing an eternity, a voice boomed from beyond the door, "Come in."

The dark-haired brute pushed the portal open, admitting the duo into an extravagantly equipped but modestly sized study. Impressive looking tomes, made even moreso by the fact that only a handful actually appeared to be written in English, filled the shelves along the wall, elegant ebony carvings serving as bookends. Moonlight peered through a large, arched window placed over a small liquor cabinet upon which a marble bust of Alexander the Great perched, the silver light shining off his features as he cast his imperious gaze over the room. On the wall opposite the doors and contained within a finely detailed mahogany frame hung a tall painting, its stern-faced subjects large as life.

Presiding over the others within the portrait was a silver-haired man with powerful hands, one of which rested on a gilded chair. Sitting upon it was a stout woman with thick red curls framing her broad face as she held an infant in her lap. To her side was a young boy with brown hair and lips that pulled at a small grin, a softness absent in the others. On the opposite side of the chair was a tall, powerfully built girl obviously still growing into her body with thick, crimson hair. The powerful fingers of her father rested on her shoulder, and the entire effect of the portrait that it wasn't so much a family that had been captured in the strokes, but a lineage.

Beneath the masterpiece was a sturdy, wooden desk equipped with a laptop and small lamp that currently served as the room's only artificial light source. At its side was a lean man with soft brown hair and jagged joints, attired in a dark suit. He stared from cruel, yellow eyes at the increasingly anxious Stryker who was fixated upon the man seated behind the desk.

Silver-haired yet possessing a dark moustache that had been absent at the time of the painting was the successor of Vincent Falcone and the family's current patriarch, Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone. Surprisingly young and possessing a broad-shouldered, imposing frame that made the hired muscle seem superfluous, 'The Roman' had earned his moniker from his single-minded conquering of Gotham City's underworld, creating the largest criminal empire the city had ever seen. He had brokered deals with the Maroni family as well as many of the lesser crime families and other established operations, and wiped out those who had spat at his offers with extreme prejudice. Obstacles on the more legitimate side of the law were despicably easy to bribe and even easier to coerce. It was a common joke, even amongst the average citizen, that Carmine held more sway in the city than its own mayor. As Stryker trembled before the true ruler of Gotham, the mob boss addressed Stryker's escort, "Johnny, would you mind taking Alberto back to his room? And don't forget to check for monsters under his bed."

Stryker's gaze shifted to a mousy, bespectacled boy in pajamas decorated with dinosaurs he hadn't noticed upon his entry as Johnny nodded, "Sure thing, Uncle Carmine. Let's go, sport. Your pop's got business to take care of."

Alberto flitted to his elder cousin's side, grabbing his sausage finger and following him from the room, pausing after the doorway so that Johnny could pull them closed. As he did so, the child waved a fervent farewell to his father, "Night-night, poppa."

Carmine returned the wave with a smile and deep chuckle, "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

As the doors shut, the latch clicking with a distressing note of finality, all compassion and affection fled the Roman's face, leaving so completely that Stryker wondered if it hadn't simply been a trick of the light. Quickly, he began offering his immeasurable gratitude, "Mr. Falcone, sir, I cannot hope to express how truly, honestly grateful I am. I swear to you, sir, I -"

"Shut up before I have Milos tear your tongue out," commanded the kingpin. Stryker's mouth clamped shut as the crime lord leaned back and sighed, pinching his thick, blocky nose between powerful fingers. After he had collected himself, he dropped his hand and said, "Your team was set. The alarm was disabled. The cops were paid off. You're just lucky that it was some of mine that ended up picking you up. And they brought you right to me so that you can try to explain exactly what went wrong with a job that should have been the easiest money you ever made."

"I swear on my mother's grave, it wasn't my fault, sir," he gushed. "Everything was going perfectly fine. Some of the boys wanted to slack off because, you know, the cops are paid off and everything, but I kept them to the schedule. Then suddenly, we get jumped by this, this, this . . . ninja!"

"A ninja?" he massaged his temple with a finger as he gave a humorless grin.

Stryker faltered but then nodded frantically, "Ye-yessir! There's no other way to describe him. He just appeared out of nowhere and before I could even draw fire on him, he's taken out half the boys. And then he rounds on me. I tried giving him a good ol' one, two, but it was like he was made of shadow or something! He managed to pummel me into unconsciousness and after that, well, you know the story as well as I do, sir."

"'Made of shadow,' huh?"

"Yessir."

Carmine sighed and set his square jaw in his palm. "Was it one of those False Face freaks that've been popping up?"

"Probably, sir. Yeah, I bet he was. His face was all monstrous looking and stuff. No way something that inhuman could've been his real face."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. Stryker. That was all I wanted to know. Milos."

The thin man produced a silenced pistol and fired three shots into the fat man's body. He strided over to the corpse and frowned at the astounded expression frozen on his face. Milos grumbled, "They always have the stupidest looks on their faces."

"Yeah, but for the most, that's true regardless of whether they're alive or dead," Carmine sighed as he pushed himself out of his chair. He joined his bodyguard and executioner beside the body and then ordered, "Toss him in some acid and let him marinate for a bit. If there's anything left, toss in the swamp. Burn everything that you got blood on and then make sure that you order replacements. Preferably sooner than later. It looks like you ruined my copy of _Dante's Inferno_. When it comes in, remind to find a new place for it. It's far too good a book to be splattering brains over every other week."

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**Again, all the named characters featured in this chapter are pre-established DC characters. We hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, please review!**


	4. Hidden Things

**We own the rights to nothing of this story.**

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_Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell the truth._

_-Oscar Wilde_

* * *

Bruce winced as he reached into his locker, his stitches threatening to tear out again at his movement. They had already disrupted his regular morning regimen of workouts, splitting open as he attempted inverted sit-ups. Alfred had admonished the teenager all the way from when he was stitching, yet again, to when he had dropped him off at school, now attired in the proper uniform. Whispers had sprang forth at his entrance, hushed and excited tones that he tried to ignore, merely offering a rueful grin as he made his way to the locker he had been assigned. He sorted the textbooks he had been provided with but did not immediately need into it, focused upon his work and distracted by his pain so that he did not notice the presence that sidled up alongside him until the intruder spoke.

"So you're the great Bruce Wayne. Gotta admit, with how long you'd been gone, I was pegging you as dead."

He turned to regard the dark eyes that lacked a shred of basic human sentiment. Their owner leaned with one shoulder against the lockers to Bruce's side, a smirk playing across his angular features. Forcing a smile, the dark-haired youth returned, "It appears the rumors of demise have been greatly exaggerated."

"Roman Sionis," he introduced, offering his hand. Bruce accepted it and was unsurprised when Roman applied undue pressure, attempting to assert his dominance in the simple gesture. Still somewhat irate about his wound from the night before and lacking the patience for such games, he applied pressure to a nerve cluster that left Roman's hand limp and numb. The blonde grit his teeth and quickly retracted his extremity, massaging it with the other as he gave a smile that did little to conceal his ire. "Quite a grip you got there."

"Thanks. So your parents own that cosmetics company, right?" he asked, making an attempt at civil conversation.

"Janus Cosmetics," he nodded. "My pop's 'baby.' Not as big as your Wayne Enterprises, but it brings in a tidy little sum."

The bell rang, banishing the students to their respective homerooms and Roman gave another nod as he pushed off from the lockers, "Catch you later, Wayne. It's nice to have somebody else with a little bit of class around."

"Uh, yeah. Sure," Bruce nodded uncertainly before closing and securing his locker. He hiked his backpack higher up onto his shoulder and headed to the room that they had assigned him yesterday. The teacher greeted him warmly before pointing him towards his seat. Sliding into it, he accidentally bashed his side into the arm of the desk, sending pain arcing through his side. His breath escaped in a hiss and he wrenched his eyes shut, forcing down the hurt that stabbed through his nerves. Focusing on his breathing, he pushed the pain out until it was little more than a dull throb, only lifting his lids when a voice intruded upon his concentration.

"Hey, Bruce, you all right?"

Turning towards the pudgy Oswald as he settled into his seat, Bruce offered a smile and assured him, "Yeah, I'm good. Just had a bit of a mishap the other night."

"Speaking of the other night, thank you for helping me out with those goons. Makes you wonder how they could let . . ._ riffraff_ like that in," he sniffed in obvious disdain and Bruce gave a good-natured chuckle.

"Well, somehow I don't think it was their brains."

Oswald stared at him with an unnerving sense of wonder before noting, "You are probably the greatest thing to ever come to this school. Well, greatest _male _thing. I heard you were chatting it up with Silver St. Cloud."

"That happened yesterday, in the final thirty minutes of the school day. How in the world did you already hear about it?" he demanded.

"Wahwahwahwah," he chortled, surprising his companion with the sound. "In Gotham Academy, rumors are faster than a dive-bombing peregrine falcon. They're probably giving the speed of light a run for its money."

"Well, let's see if we can spread the truth just as fast," he leaned in, and, as though guarding a secret, cupped a hand next to his mouth and whispered, "Absolutely nothing more than friendly conversation happened between me and Miss St. Cloud."

"Hey, Wayne, I heard you were muscling in on my girl," Harvey barked as he strode into the room, having already deposited his backpack in his own homeroom. His attempt at an angry countenance shattered as he flopped into the empty desk in front of his dark-haired friend and offered a broad grin while Bruce rolled his blue eyes.

"I'm sure you did. Do any of you guys here actually do anything besides listen to rumors?"

"Hey, most of us are the prospective rich and famous. Just wait until we. Then it'll be the whole world reading about crazy misconceptions in the tabloids and mags about _us_," he smirked. "I'm already planning on starting this whole big 'multiple identity' thing."

"Then you might as well get it right. It's dissociative identity now, not multiple," Bruce corrected with a sigh.

"Why do you know that?" asked Oswald with obvious perplexity.

"Morning, Ozzy," Harvey beamed at the rotund teenager who offered a weak smile and focused on Bruce's answer.

He shrugged, "I like learning things."

His friends stared at him for a moment before their eyes met and Harvey mused, "I bet I know what he'd like to learn."

"What's that?"

"Silver's phone number."

"All right, all right. That's enough out of you. Get to your own class before I do something to get people starting the totally accurate rumor that the new kid kicked Harvey Dent's ass."

"They'd probably think we were fighting over Silver," he laughed as he rose and exited the class, but not before turning at the door and loudly threatening, "Just make sure you stay away from my girl, Wayne, or we'll continue this conversation after school!"

With a wink, he darted away, leaving Bruce to groan as he reclined back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling tiles for a minute. Oswald sniggered at his friend's duress as the bell rang and everybody filed sluggishly to their seats as the teacher stood and walked over to the board. As the morning announcements blared over the intercom, Bruce instinctively scoped out his peers, dissecting their mannerisms as best as he could. The anxiety of the girl who incessantly tapped her foot while she folded her arms over her chest, tugging her sleeves up her wrists to hide the answers to the quiz that she had scrawled there. Across the room, a boy worked on some clandestine prose or poem concerning a girl not too far from him, occasionally sneaking glances at her to assist in his description. Another boy had dabbed on slightly too much cologne to disguise the scent of the marijuana he had been recently smoking, and the subtle shifts and protective patting of his pocket suggested that he had more stashed on his person. Finishing his survey of the occupants of the room, he began cataloguing potential escape routes and, for more extreme cases, weapons until the bell clamored. Everybody rose from their seats and shuffled to the door, massing together and hampering progress for a moment.

Finally emerging into the river of people, Bruce followed along in the slow crawl, having managed to memorize the layout of the academy's floors between getting his wound restitched and breakfast, as he made his way towards his class. He had mixed feelings about the path that opened in the crowd before him, reminiscent of a story about a man with a staff and the Red Sea, as he walked through the halls. His lips tugged into a rueful grin as he murmured his gratitude and encouraged them not to make such a path again. Escaping from the attention into his first classroom, he spotted familiar scarlet tresses at a lab table and crossed the room towards them, dropping in the stool beside their owner.

"Hello, Pamela," he greeted her as he pushed his bag under the table with his foot. She nearly toppled from her seat at the sound of his voice but she managed to whirl, large green eyes staring in surprise as her mouth flapped open and close for a moment.

"B-b-bruce! W-what're you-you -"

"Oh, sorry. Was this somebody else's assigned seat? I can move," he offered, reaching to fish out his knapsack. She gasped and pressed her hands to his arm though she quickly retracted her touch as though she had been burnt.

"Oh, nononono! There aren't any assigned seats, it's just that you, well, you kind of surprised me. And I usually sit with -"

"Ooh, my lil' Pammy's got herself a boyfriend! Atta' girl! I knew ya had it in ya," a feminine voice with a strong nasal accent squealed. It was Bruce's turn to give a small jump and he mentally berated himself for not hearing the approach of the girl as he twisted about to stare at the beaming blonde. She was lean with the build of a gymnast and remained constantly posed as though ready to leap into the air at any moment. Straw-hued hair descended past her shoulders and was collected in two pigtails atop her head, held in place by a pair of bands, one red and one black. Bending at her broad hips, she pushed out a full lip and stroked her chin as she studied the dark-haired boy who accepted the scrutiny with no more than a raised brow. Circling about him, she continued her intense observation, occasionally making thoughtful or appreciative sounds in her throat, never manifesting into true words. Finally she smiled and gave a nod, springing to Pamela and capturing her in a hug, nuzzling her cheek.

"Ooooh! I am so, so proud of ya," she gushed as the redhead's face turned a shade to match her hair.

"Harley, he's -"

Leaping off of her, the blonde stood before Bruce, a balled fist on her broad hip as she wagged a finger in his face and cautioned, "Listen up, handsome. Ya better treat this gal right, ya hear? She's a delicate lil' flower, and I find out that ya hurt one dainty lil' hair on her head, I'll pound ya into paste. I'll – umblphm!"

She was cut off by thin fingers sealing themselves over her mouth as Pamela tried to rein the enthusiastic girl back in, her face still crimson as she muttered, "And I think that that's about enough of that. Sorry, Bruce."

"Brmphmm!" the blonde's eyes widened and flickered between the girl holding her captive and the dark-haired boy.

"Not a problem. Your friend seems . . . enthusiastic, at least," he grinned. The blonde slipped from her captor's grasp and performed a grandiose bow, sweeping her arm in a broad flourish.

"Harleen Francis Quinzel. But call me Harley. Everyone does," she grinned. "And ya must be the great and illustrious Bruce Wayne. Let me say, I've heard quite a bit 'bout'cha."

"I hope it's all good," he offered a friendly smile.

"Oh, you could say that, Mistah W," she winked before dancing to the teacher's desk and stealing the wheeled chair. She spun herself back towards the pair, twirling in her seat for several more turns before finally stopping herself, beaming at the pair as she crossed her arms on the table and set her chin upon them. "What brings ya back t'Gotham, Mistah W?"

"Had to dispute some claims of my demise. Soon as that gets taken care of, I'm probably out of here," he admitted as the bell clanged, sentencing students to their seats as the teacher entered the classroom, giving a tired sight at the blond in her seat.

"Harley, get out of my chair," she instructed.

"Sure thing, teach," she answered in her distinctive accent, pushing off from the table and spinning towards the desk. Jumping from the chair, she loped back to the desk behind Pamela and Bruce, swinging her arms broadly before settling onto the stool. Shaking her head while heaving an exasperated sigh, the teacher took control of the class and the lessons began. Bruce periodically glanced over at Pamela, ensuring that no assaults were being staged upon her like the day before, but was pleasantly surprised to see that none dared. Every time he glanced backward, Harley began to wave excitedly until he finally acknowledged her enthusiastic greeting.

When the bell rang, permitting them temporary reprieve from class and Bruce smiled and nodded to Pamela as he rose, bidding farewell to her and Harley before heading out into the hall. As he merged with the crowd, he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulder, but before he could deliver any offensive counterattack, Harvey whispered, "Dude . . ."

"What?"

"Dude."

"What?"

"_Dude_."

"Harvey, if you can't explain why your hand is on my shoulder, I'll remove it for you," he menaced.

"Fair enough," he nodded, lifting his hand and heading alongside him. "How in the _world_ do you know Pamela Isley?"

"Is there something wrong with her?"

"She's a bit plain, but not really. Well, she's not from money or anything. The only reason that she's here is because of some special scholarship or something like that they hand out every year," he explained.

"Oh, so you mean she's here because she actually worked for and deserved a place unlike all those who are just handed an education like ours? Scandalous," he observed drily.

"Okay, see, now why do you have to make everything I say sound stupid?"

"You don't need my help with that."

"You know, you two keep whispering sweet nothings like that, and the next rumor they start sure isn't going to be about me and Bruce," Silver suddenly quipped, leaning between the pair and giving a bright smile.

"He should be so lucky," Harvey scoffed at her suggestion and Bruce rolled his eyes. She loops her arms in their elbows as they continue down the hallway, attracting a number of stares.

"Actually, you're both pretty lucky. You get to walk a beautiful girl to her next class," she returned.

"Beautiful girl? Where?" Bruce smirked, earning a pout and pinch on his forearm as he chuckled good-naturedly.

"Be nice, or there really will be rumors about you and Harvey."

"Let them tell their slander! Nothing shall stand between the love that Bruce and I share. Nothing!" yelled the evenly featured boy, raising his free arm into the air to accentuate his point.

"One day, I'm going to push you off a building," Bruce groaned as Silver giggled.

"Well, far be it from me to stand between such a happy couple. Have at it, boys," she grinned as she slipped away from them, ducking into her class. Bruce stared after her for a moment, a soft smile still on his features as Harvey wiggled his eyebrows.

"Oh, the stories they'll tell," he gave an evil laugh.

"Which you'll only be encouraging, I presume."

"You know me too well, Bruce. Speaking of stories to be spread, this is my stop. See you at lunch, man," he slipped past and then unleashed a battle cry as he charged through the opposite flowing file of students to push into the classroom. He paused, turned, and offered a salute towards Bruce who waved farewell and continued along his path. As the numbers thinned, he counted the numbers on the door, making sure that he had not mixed his next class in the distractions he had found himself caught up in when a cold voice intruded upon his count.

"You keep some odd company, Wayne."

"Roman," he glanced back and found that the sharp-faced boy was accompanied by his broad-shoulder companion, lips parted in a seemingly permanent sneer. "And Gunther Hardwicke, right?"

"Only if you want to be spitting out your own teeth. Call me Shackley," growled the tall boy.

"Cut Wayne some slack. He's new," Roman advised but there was a steel to his voice that drew the notably larger boy to heel. Shackley snorted, but dropped the subject as Roman offered what he probably thought was a friendly smile. "Like I was saying, you've got some odd friends. I heard that you protected that Cobblepot kid yesterday."

"I've been here less than a single day. Do you guys just mass text everybody any time somebody finds something that is even remotely interesting?" he grumbled.

"Eh," Roman shrugged as he took a spot at Bruce's shoulder who did not fail to notice the wide berth the boy was given or the anxious looks of the students. "At least it's better than being thought dead."

"I'm going to have to get back to you on that."

He laughed, a hollow sound devoid of sincerity, and clasped Bruce's shoulder in an overly companionable manner, "You know, Wayne, you're an interesting guy. I get the feeling that Gotham's going to get a lot more fun with you around."

"We can only hope," he muttered, giving a closed-lip smile.

* * *

"I still don't get why you're trying to get so cozy with that Wayne kid. He's just another one of those soft, legacy kids," Shackley grumbled as he stomped down the hall behind Roman. They had left the school hours ago and changed their garments, the shorter boy donning a dark pinstripe suit, black dress shirt, and a crimson tie while his bulkier companion had shrugged on a leather jacket and jeans. They strode through one of Janus Cosmetics' defunct factories, currently occupying the once white-washed walls of the administrative area that had since been decorated with a variety of Gotham City's tags. Squatters had once lingered within the large building, but Roman had encouraged them to find other accommodations after he decided it would be serving as his base of operations.

"Shackley, if we went through the trouble of writing down what you don't get, we'd have a novel on our hands," mocked the cruel-eyed boy.

"Stop treating me like I'm dumb. I'm not the dumb one," he snarled.

"But you certainly aren't the most astute of us," observed a modulated voice, only barely recognizable as female. The grey suit clung to the curvy girl's frame, her face obscured by a porcelain fox mask that was decorated with graceful scarlet swirls and markings. She nodded her head in greeting as the pair approached and Shackley growled at her.

"Fuck you, Li," he snapped.

"Shackley, what's the rule about the masks?" Roman chided, almost painfully but his eyes remained dead as he glanced up at the taller boy. His brow furrowed and he bared his teeth before turning away and correcting himself.

"Fuck you, 'Fox.'"

"Vulture is here," she reported, ignoring her fellow lieutenant.

"And what about the rest of my Society?" her boss asked as he pushed through the door she had been standing beside.

"Those not assigned to pick-up are awaiting your command, sir," she followed after him, cutting off Shackley as he pulled a pair of bandanas from his pocket. He knotted the first about the lower half of his face, covering it with an image of gaping shark jaws and then secured the other about his forehead, taking a second to shape it so that it emulated a fin.

The break room was moderately sized, bearing the typical decorations of the largely abandoned building with the addition of the broken and ransacked vending machines. Most of the chairs had been stolen and the tables scrawled with obscenities that Vulture perched upon, his face covered by a mask reminiscent of those once worn by plague doctors. A frumpy canvas jacket enveloped his nearly emaciated frame and his baggy pants swallowed his boots.

"Yo, boss. The boys are waiting for you," he nodded in greeting.

"So I heard, Vulture," he nodded as he turned to face the wall filled with hanging masks. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and whistled to himself as he perused them before lifting a solid wooden mask devoid of aspects beyond eye gaps and pulling the straps about his head. Adjusting it, he turned before pausing and fixing his cold stare upon the Shark.

"By the way, the interest in that Wayne kid? I want to see what he's keeping under that mask of his."

He emerged from the room, simultaneously activating the microphones worked into his mask, onto the gangway overlooking the large work area, filled with tubs of chemicals that had been left to languish. At the end of the long room were tall doors that trucks would pull up to for shipment of the products the factory had once produced. Men and women lounged in the vacant spaces of the room, leaning against a vat or table when available. Their manner of dress varied wildly but all wore a mask of some sort. Most had simply donned Halloween masks, leading to a number of 'werewolves' standing amongst the crowd, but there were also hockey masks, biking helmets, smaller designs that only obscured the eyes, and specially crafted false faces. Murmurs that had been spreading amongst them quieted as he wrapped his fingers about the railing and gaze out upon his society. The trio lined themselves behind him and he waited for total silence to fall before lifting his arms as though to embrace the collective.

"You're all looking well," he greeted them, his voice echoing from the speakers on the wall. His remark earned him scattered chuckles, and he smirked beneath his mask as he dropped his hands back onto the bars before him, leaning in slightly.

"Now, I bet you're all chomping at the bit to go out for another fun night on the town, and I want nothing more than to unleash you on our dear, dear city, but we have a slight problem," he announced. He dropped his head and sighed, "It seems, the fossils who think they run this town didn't get the memo of their extinction."

There was a general outcry, a roar of derision for the more established groups of Gotham City's organized crime and the upstart smiled at their eagerness, "They sit in their mansions atop hills, looking down on us as though they think their reign eternal. The police sit snugly in their pockets, and they start thinking themselves untouchable."

He pauses for a second, letting his voice echo throughout the large room, his society waiting with bated breath, all eyes upon him before he continued, "Meanwhile, we are left the scraps on the table. We find ourselves chased and persecuted at every turn by police who we can never pay off as long as the leeches grow fat on what should be our due."

Slamming a fist against his chest to emphasize his point, he stared out across the ocean of masks and his tongue flickered over his lips as his hand returned to the railing.

"They swagger in the sunlight, unconcerned with authorities and their true selves masked behind bill folds. They have forgotten what it is to fear."

They hung on his rhetoric, ready to set the entire town ablaze should he ask for it and their devotion was intoxicating, stalling him for a moment as he internally reveled in it, taking in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, a pleased sigh, before stating casually, "I think it's time that we remind them what it is to be scared. To not know if they're going to make it to the next day. So we will tear apart the infrastructures they have spent years building. We will paint the town red with their blood. We will build monuments of their corpses. And we will take. This. TOWN!"

Hundreds of voices like thunder rumbled through the factory as he stood over them, hold his arms out as their roar vibrated through his body. The idea gripped them and they pounded on the sides of the drums towering over them, on the tables, on whatever was near as the excitement sought some means of escaping their bodies. Their cries would have escaped into the outside had the factory not been constructed as soundly as it was, and even then it was only barely holding back the cacophony. Amongst the din, Fox turned and slipped deeper into the shadows, pressing two fingers to her ear before approaching her boss and whispering to him. Another smile bloomed beneath his mask and he turned his hands so that they were parallel to the ground and shushed his eager legion.

"And now, I present to you the means to do so!"

Metallic rattling filled the room as the large doors at the end lifted and the masked men who had been waiting wheeled in the wooden crates set on dolley carts. They set them on the ground with solid thumps before pulling out crowbars and tearing off the lids with the sound of splitting wood. As the covers were carelessly discarded, one of the men lifted an M4 stored within into the air, drawing another cheer from the crowd who rushed forward to get their hands on the armaments as more crates were pulled from the trucks that had delivered the cargo. Roman grinned savagely, a cruel light coming into his eyes as the agent he had entrusted with the task made his way along the gangway, bowing his head in greeting as he approached.

"I trust that you got ammunition for them," the ambitious young man said.

"Of course," he scoffed.

"Good. Did you hear my speech?"

"Yeah, we arrived right when you started. Didn't want to interrupt you."

"Smart move. What did you think?"

The dim lights cast a shine to run across the suited man in the full crimson mask that lacked facial features shrugged, "It was good and all, but I really think that you should leave the jokes to the professionals."

* * *

**We're baaaaaaaccccck! We hope you enjoyed this chapter as it sets up more foes for the young Bruce Wayne. As always, please review.**

** Sporks: So we realize that we could have sent you a PM now, but we figured we'd just answer your last review here. We have plans for more Selina, but it's going to take a while to properly work her in - until then, we hope you enjoyed Harley's appearance in this chapter. And, yes, Crock is indeed Sportsmaster. We cannot describe how happy you are that you got that.**


	5. Learning Curve

**We own the rights to nothing in this story.**

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_Never be afraid to try something new. Remember that a lone amateur built the Ark. A large group of professionals built the Titanic._

_-Dave Barry_

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Once again, Bruce found himself running over Gotham's rooftops, long after the sun had sunk beyond the horizon. He was more careful than his usual run, holding back the pain of his wound and trying not to tear the stitches out again. His hood was pulled up and he bounded over the alleys, giving small _oomph_ with each landing before continuing on. As in the nights before, the cries of the city drifted up to him and by the time he turned to chase down the broken shouts and calls, they had already fallen silent. For a moment, he would stand at a ledge, looking out across the pinpricks of light, standouts against the pervading darkness of his home. A frown reached across his face before he heard a soft footfall and turned to see a lithe figure with a fur-lined hood and amber goggles about her neck. Her full lips pulled into a smile and the girl he had met on his first night back in Gotham purred, "Well, if it isn't Mr. Prim-and-Proper. You got a thing for only coming out during the night?"

"'Do you _have_ a thing,'" he corrected but gave a slight smile.

"I will push you off this roof," Selina, he recalled the name her sister had called, threatened as she swung herself down, sitting on the ledge and swing her legs over the side. "You know, most people are smart enough to stay inside at night."

"What exactly does that make you?"

"Somebody who knows how to handle whatever these streets got," she answered before glancing up at him. "What about you?"

"I have seen the horrors these streets produce," he answered, gazing out across the cityscape. "There are worse things that haunt this world."

She was silent for a moment before glancing away and giving a low whistle, "Man, anybody ever tell you that you're all sorts of depressing?"

"Sorry," he shrugged before glancing down at her. "What brings you out here anyway?"

"Please. Anybody who's ever seen a slasher film knows jogging in the park is never a good idea. But when have you ever seen the chick racing across rooftops get chopped up?" she smirked as she extended a comely leg that her jeans hugged. Slender fingers traced along the toned limb as she said, "And a body this perfect doesn't just maintain itself. What about you, mystery boy?"

"Me?"

"Mmm-hm. Our last little chat got interrupted. So how about them secrets?" she smiled, her blue eyes brightening.

"You still haven't given up on that?"

"Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought her back," she grinned playfully.

Before he could answer, a spray of gunfire roared from an alley across the street and Bruce sprang forward, diving for a fire escape and swinging to the ground below. He was racing across the street as Selina stood and called after him, "What are you doing?! That's _towards_ the gunfire!"

Her words reached no further than his ears as he leapt into the dark, bounding atop a dumpster before driving his elbow into the masked man with the assault rifle. A grunt escaped through the rubber monster mask as the man slammed into the ground and Bruce rolled out of the way as the man's partner turned from the doorway, spraying at the dark figure. Shooting forward, Bruce smashed the man's arms into the doorframe before throwing him over his shoulder. As the shooter stood, the young man leapt from the top of the steps and smashed his elbow atop the masked man's head, sentencing him to unconsciousness. Standing, he dove out of the way as a blocky man emerged in the doorway, pistol in hand as he opened fire.

"False Face freaks!" he snarled as Bruce dove behind a dumpster, counting the shots until the clip was emptied. Then he emerged, darting forward as the man reloaded, and smashed his palm into his jawline before delivering another blow to knock him out. Pulling his hood down over his face, he glanced into the room, a cramped poker room that had sustained a number of bullet wounds though its occupants were seemingly unharmed. Ducking out of the doorframe, he raced away from the scene before the distant sounds of shots rang through the air again, the stitches free of his skin and blood staining his undershirt.

* * *

He could feel the stitches threatening to pull loose again as he reached into his locker, the work on them shoddy as he had attempted to tend to himself the night before. After his first encounter, he had encountered three more groups of heavily armed men with Halloween masks, and had been fortunate that despite their armaments, they were poor shots. The weapons leapt in their hands, spitting bullets into the brick and concrete of the city as they tried to reclaim control. By then, he had been on them and even with the hindrance of his opened gash, he had only earned several bruises that were still tender but not serious. Many of the targets of the masked men readily returned fire though not with the same level of weaponry, producing only handguns in response. Bruce had handled them in the same manner as their assailants, leaving them unconscious as he set off to stop other potential shootouts before fatigue threatened his body, dangerously slowing his reflexes and bearing responsibility for many of the tender, purpling marks along his body.

His movements were short and affected by the pain that shot through each of them, which did not go unnoticed by his peers.

"Hey, Bruce. You feeling all right?"

Pulling a textbook from his locker and dropping it in his backpack, which he had settled for simply carrying in his hands, he turned to face Silver, offering a somewhat strained smile.

"Mostly. I just started a new workout regimen and it's kind of kicking my butt."

"Ooh, sounds fun," she smiled as she fell into step alongside him. "So, how've you been liking Gotham Academy?"

"It certainly has some . . . interesting characters," he conceded, drawing a bright laugh from her.

"It definitely does."

"Roman decided to talk to me the other day."

"Man, you're just having tons of fun, aren't you?"

"Oodles. He's a bit off-putting, isn't he?"

"On his good days. And did you just use the word 'oodles?'" she smiled.

"I'll deny it if you bring it up again."

"What did the young Master Sionis want to talk to you about?"

"Honestly? I'm not even sure. He introduced himself and then he was talking about how I've got an odd taste in friends," Bruce shrugged.

There was a rattling sound as a body slammed into the lockers across the hall and the pair glanced over to see Oswald shoved against a locker, pressed there by the pair who had been harassing him the other day. The leaner of the pair was the aggressor, his fist raised as he snapped, in obvious benefit for the gathering audience, "What'd you say about me, waddles?"

"Urrggghh. I didn't say anything, you oafish nincompoop," grunted the portly youth.

Stallion snorted in amusement as Crock laughed derisively, "'Nincompoop?' Seriously? What'chu think this is, kindergarten?"

"I was trying to speak on your reading level," returned his defiant captive.

Crock's eyes darkened and he ground his teeth together as he cocked his fist back further, and Oswald instinctively shut his eyes. Before the blow could fall, a steely grip captured Crock's arm and he snarled before turning to hard, blue eyes. Bruce instructed coldly, "Let my friend go."

"You gonna make me?" returned the brunette confidently, his eyes making contact with Stallion who lumbered forward.

"You really want me to humiliate you again?" Bruce asked.

"Girls, girls. You're all pretty. Now why don't we move out of the way of my locker?" Roman interjected suddenly, flanked by Shackley, Armand, and Kelly. The dull-eyed boy slouched with hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face as he continued, "I had a helluva night, and you really don't want me to take that out on you, do you?"

As the crowd quickly dispersed, Crock grumbled before tearing from Bruce's hand and releasing Oswald. He shouldered pass the former and grumbled, "Don't think this is over, pretty boy."

"Any time, any place," he returned before the boy stormed away, accompanied by his blonde companion who continued to cast dirty glances back at the remaining students. Shackley stepped forward, growling at Bruce and the now-petrified Oswald who trembled before the cruel-eyed boy.

"You heard the man. Get the fuck outta the way."

Bruce met the gaze evenly and Shackley faltered before the shorter boy departed, dragging Oswald along with him to join with the waiting Silver. Roman watched them leave before moving to his now deserted locker and spinning the combination dial.

Oswald looked back over his shoulder worriedly before leaning in and whispering, "Did you know that before Shackley was born, he ate his twin in the womb?"

"Oh, don't tell me that you seriously believe those rumors," Silver rolled her eyes.

"I don't know," Bruce finally smiled. "That's a rumor I might believe. He looks like he could do it."

"Okay, you know what? I'm leaving before you guys start anymore ridiculous stories. Catch you later, Bruce. Ozzy," she nodded before striding down the hall while they turned into their homeroom.

"How did Gunther make it into this school? I trust it wasn't on a scholarship," Bruce asked.

"Yeah, see, I try to stay as far away from him as I can. But I think his dad's got a company that makes boats or something. If I'm right about that, they've got a couple defense contracts going on with the military," Oswald offered as they settled into their desks. "It's actually kind of funny. Volper's parents own an airline and Fisk's mom makes cars or something like that. So, they're like land, air, and sea."

"You really use those names for them?"

"Better that than if it gets back to them that I'm not. Those guys are worse than Lawrence and Randy," the short boy said the last names with pronounced disgust.

"Who?"

"Crock and Stallion. They're steroid-infused assholes, but at least they aren't murderous sociopaths," he muttered.

"They're really that bad?"

"Well, it's not like there's any proof or anything, but it's pretty widely known," he assured Bruce.

The bell clamored over the students as the teacher strode to the front of the class, taking charge of his students, and Bruce sat back as he considered the information his rotund friend had just offered. His mind was still on the subject as the bell rang, sending them to their first class of the day, and he wandered the halls somewhat dazed. He was broken from his reverie by a nasal sing-song.

"Mornin', Brucie!" Harley cheered with enthusiasm unusual for so early in the morning on a school day.

"Harley," he nodded cordially. "What happened to 'Mistah W?'"

"Eh. I decided it didn't suit ya. Brucie, though . . . well, that's gotta ring to it," she answered.

"Where's Pamela?"

"My lil' PI's runnin' a bit late today. Don't start worryin' your pretty lil' head over it, she's all right. Plus, you getta spend the class sittin' next to me. Whatta treat, right?" she smiled broadly.

"Shall we adjourn to our seats then?" he offered his arm and she eagerly hooked elbows with him.

"That we shall, Brucie."

They strode to their lab table with all the air of regality, attracting the stares of their peers that Harley seemed to revel in. He detached from her momentarily to pull out her chair, sweeping into an elaborate bow as she perched daintily upon it. Settling into the seat beside her, he smiled as she broke the façade to give a whooping laugh, "Oh, Brucie, we are gonna have so much fun together. I can tell."

"You might be on to something, Harley," he returned as the instructor assumed charge of the class. Amongst the notes on molarity and chemical combination, Harley doodled little figures and caricatures in the spaces of her notebook, proudly showing off her mediocre skills to Bruce who presented her with the customary politeness. Every other sentence the teacher uttered seemed to remind the pig-tailed blonde of a dirty limerick and other bawdy joke that she was eager to share. Despite himself, he let a few genuine smiles slip through at her antics, offering soft chuckles that earned him the teacher's glare though she never called him out on it. Harley was equally immune to any admonishments though she seemed rather oblivious to any misconduct on her part to earn any ire. Beneath the heavy accent, rapid prattling broken up only by frequent giggling, and questionable jokes, he noted a keen intellect and surprising insight.

When class ended, he bid her a somewhat reluctant farewell and met up with Harvey who greeted him with the usual enthusiasm before interrogating him on his relationship with Harley. Bruce pushed away his charismatic friend and his inquisition, leaving him stranded on a fire extinguisher amongst the flood of students. Avoiding Roman this time, beyond a number of glances to observe the surly attitude and short temper, Bruce made his way to class without incident. His day passed without any extraordinary occurrence beyond the inevitable splitting of his side as his shoddy stitching came undone. During study hall, he slipped from the classroom to collect supplies from the first aid kit he had hidden in his locker before heading to the bathroom to press a patch to his side held in place by medical tape. He accepted that he would have to turn to Alfred's expertise once again to tend to the injury and then returned to study hall where he found himself discussing the recent emergence of so-called metahumans amongst the populace.

"It's dangerous. People aren't meant for that sort of power. If they have it, they'll abuse it," he argued. "And if they don't, somebody else will."

"Nice to see that you have some faith in humanity," she rolled her eyes.

"That _is_ faith. I have faith that humanity will use whatever power is within their reach to stand on top of the pile," he said bitterly.

"Okay, see, I dare to be a little more hopeful. Think of all the good it could do. People who can control plants and such could encourage crops to grow to feed the hungry. Maybe ice powers could help with global warming."

"Or be used to overrun civilization or freeze anybody who dares to trouble you."

"Well, just about anything can be used for nefarious purposes -"

"'Nefarious?'"

"Shut up. It's about how you use it."

"Precisely," he nodded. "And given the opportunity, anybody with powers would use them for self-serving goals."

"What about your parents?"

He paused and his voice grew cold as he growled, "Excuse me?"

"Your parents used all the wealth and resources they could to help the people of Gotham. Are you saying that if they had had powers, they'd use them for their own selfish desires?" she pressed.

"My parents were good people," he grumbled.

"Exactly. But they weren't – and aren't – the only ones in the world. Face it, Bruce. There are good people out there, even if you don't believe in them," she said.

He let her win the argument with the final few moments before the bell rang, spending the time packing away the homework he had been working through. As the clamor released the students, he bid his farewells to Silver and quickly exited, trying to avoid the crowd that would only agitate the pain throbbing in his side. Stepping off to the side, he ensured that Oswald would not be suffering at the hands of his tormentors, watching the portly boy clamber into one of the many dark cars, before heading to the vehicle waiting for him.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. Did you have a good day at school?" Alfred asked.

"It was . . . interesting," he winced as a spasm of pain lanced from his gash. "But I'm afraid I tore the stitches out."

"Doing what?" the elder man queried knowlingly.

"Exercise," he answered with a straight face.

After arriving back at the manor and revealing the sloppily patched wound, Alfred arched a brow at the small scrapes and mottled bruises. With a sigh, he peeled away the bandage as he grumbled, "I think it's time that you consider a new exercise regimen, Master Bruce. This one seems to be doing more harm than good."

"Just because you can't always see the good doesn't mean it isn't there."

"Well, see if you can do a bit more good without leaving your body an absolute wreck by the time you're twenty-five, sir," he advised.

"I'll give it a shot, Alfred," he smiled.

* * *

"_Twelve_!" the black masked youth roared as he threw one of the chairs in the abandoned break room at the window. "There was over a hundred targets, and all these losers could manage, even with all those nice, pretty guns _I_ gave them, was TWELVE FUCKIN' HITS?!"

"The majority of our targets were armed to begin with, sir, and provided resistance. The police also interfered," Fox reported. She did not flinch at her boss's rage, calmly regarding the data she had collected on her pad as Shark, Vulture, and Red Hood warily watched the savage youth.

"There was somebody else running around taking out our squads," added the latter of the three. "The boys were talking about this guy all dressed up in black and a hoodie. Apparently, he pretty much kicked their asses."

"With what?" demanded Roman.

"Nothing," Red Hood shrugged, leaning against the wall. "He quite literally kicked their asses. Or handed it to them in a variety of other ways that didn't involve his feet."

"And how many did this Good Samaritan stop?"

"Four."

"So why are you bothering me with this shit?" he growled and Red Hood unfolded his arms to hold up his, warding off his boss's wrath. Dull eyes snapped towards Fox, "What do we still have?"

"Thirty-one of our False Face members are dead, either by their own targets or the police. Another twenty-seven are in police custody though likely eight of those cases will fall apart due to general incompetence or corruption. We have enough funds stored up to secure the freedom of five more, but our money is limited," Fox calculated.

"Leave 'em," he ordered before dropping into a chair at a table. He rested an elbow on it as he put a hand to the forehead of his mask and groaned, "Can we recover the guns at least?"

"That should be considerably cheaper though Officer Fiasco has been increasing his prices lately. I shall get in touch with him," she promised.

"Yeah, look into that. Let me know before you make any final decisions," he directed. Fox bowed her head and retreated from the room as her boss dropped his masked face into his palm for a moment before looking up towards Red Hood. "You got any idea how we can fix this?"

"No offense, boss, but your boys couldn't shoot the ground if they were aiming at it. They don't know these weapons aside from the barrel and the trigger. They need some training," Red Hood suggested.

"And you can provide them with that?"

"I can make sure they at least know how to hit something ten feet in front of them."

"You got an idea where exactly you can get them to practice?"

"It's going to be a tad suspicious if we all start piling in at that shooting ranges, but I got a few other places I might be able to set up. I'll have to check it out -"

"Go. Take care of it," he dismissed him before turning to Shark and Vulture. "We need some revenue. Those guns cost us and with the utter disaster that was last night, I'm restraining myself from using the remaining bullets on these fuckers. I don't care how you do it – Hell, I don't care if you set the boys to mugging poor saps on the streets for five dollars a time – but you two are going to recoup my losses. Is that clear?"

"Got it, boss," Shark nodded. "We'll get some people together and get to work."

He thundered from the room, Vulture slinking after him as they began to discuss options, leaving Roman to his own thoughts. For a moment, he just sat in the empty room before slamming his fist against the table and roaring, "Shit!"

* * *

Once upon a time, the Monarch Theater had been a regal structure, one of the best cinemas in the entirety of Gotham City that had been frequented even by the gentry of the dark place. In the years since the infamous murder that had taken place not a block away, such popularity had rapidly declined to the point where it had to be shut down. It remained standing, too much of a landmark to be torn down, and it had quickly become infested with reprobates and the homeless. Then new management had moved in, clearing it of the loitering men and women before setting up what was commonly referred to as the Den. It was an illicit club, entirely underground where addicts and junkies paid to enter before being treated to a buffet of drugs of all sorts and sizes. Colorful pills were collected in bowls like candy, and consumed just as readily, and cocaine was finely ground and passed about in small bowls. Needles were carefully collected and kept sanitized until they were used after which they are discarded in rather obvious trash cans. Blunts were rolled and set alongside booklets of matches to light them, and their smoke coiled through the music filled air as the men and women of the Den partook of the carefully stocked iniquities.

Many of the chairs in the theaters had been removed, replaced with old and stained mattresses that the attendees collapsed on. Obscene scrawls and brilliantly colored tags decorated the screens, save for a few that still ran movies provided by the proprietors of the Den. Occasionally, some would seek out privacy in the film booths that weren't in use, but most just milled through the halls and the screen rooms, partaking of the different joys in their rooms.

Worn and battered combat boots marched through the dimly lit halls and peered into the rooms, checking for signs of life before moving on. The figure stood shoulders above the next tallest occupant of the Den, and he was as impressively broad, forcing those who passed him in the hallway to press against the wall to avoid being trod underfoot. Somehow, he had managed to find a ratty orange hoodie that fit his frame and its hood remained constantly drawn up, its shadows hiding his face in conjunction with a stained dust mask. Orange eyes peered out from the thin stripe between the mask and the top of the hood, glaring at the junkies that wandered into his path that he did not hesitate to remove with annoyed blows strong enough to crack ribs. Rough jeans that, in a similar miracle to his sweatshirt, contained his tree trunk legs reached to his boots while yellow rubber gloves that did nothing to hinder the dexterity of his digits were pulled upon his hands.

He moved from room to room, ensuring that each was freshly stocked while checking on the occupants, ensuring signs of vitality and occasionally delivering vicious kicks to their guts to rouse them when such evidence was too meager for his care. After ensuring that the clients were alive, albeit bruised, he would move on again. Occasionally, he would intercede upon outbreaks of violence, rarely needing to do anything more than threaten to step in, but some were foolish enough to offer to take him on. Such occasions were quickly handled and he would deposit the unconscious addicts in Park Row, tucking them behind the dumpster where he could move them later.

Entering a smoke-filled room, he cringed at the smell and glanced about. It was a room he was not usually required to check out, its particular feature being plant-based narcotics and 'party favors' that were not considered as likely to produce an overdose. The music was softer in the room, interspersed with giggling from its occupants and he wandered through, ensuring that everybody was breathing before pausing at one of the mattresses. He crouched down, observing the tiny girl curled comfortably upon it, whispering softly to herself. For a moment, he simply watched her, studying the play of freckles across pale skin that contrasted sharply with the crimson tresses that cascaded from her head. She shifted and he flinched away, fearing she would catch his observation, but she mumbled incoherently and settled back into her restfulness.

Watching her for another moment to ensure that she wasn't about to wake up, he reached towards the end of the mattress for one of the blankets piled there and inspected it, ensuring that it wasn't too infested with vermin before spreading it across the sleeping girl. Giving a snort and a nod, he stormed from the room while the redhead released a contented breath and pulled the blanket tighter about her.

* * *

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